Sweater
by Lael Mae
Summary: Part 3 of Den of Iniquity. I lick my dry lips. He smiles and nuzzles me in response, whispering to me something I didn't understand. "I missed you." [Noncon. Pairings and warnings inside.]


Pairing: Matoba + Natori → Natsume  
Inspiration: pixiv 6799257 by RM  
Warnings: Underage, noncon, implied/noncon drugging

* * *

Shigeru gave me this sweater, the one currently being pushed up my chest.

I don't hold any sentiment for the other clothing they removed. The sweater is purposely left, as directed by the man behind me.

"Leave that."

He must have known its value. That's why he leaves it, with only one arm in the sleeve, and continues, ghosting a hand over my left nipple.

I stare off onto a faded beige wall. Time is slow and dragged-out, like the hands running down my waist and abdomen. My wrists are secured by another set of hands, dragging me backwards, lifted, adjusted.

Everything is like a slow and liquid, though I'm able to notice each movement, each breath, each touch among us. Whenever I receive a touch, my nerves flare hotly, leaving behind flushed skin prickling beneath.

A hand lets my left arm drop to grab my jaw, turning it side-to-side. A pair of hands slip up my bare thighs. I see the man beneath me leaning up, catching his eyes for a moment before the other appears (slender, smooth, soft-looking. My eyes flutter at the thought of touching that face). His warm lips touch mine, pushing them apart, wrenching a whine from my throat. Hands massage into the junction of my thighs and abdomen, its owner murmuring unregistered words. Wetness brushes against my lips. I sigh, and it experimentally prods inside my mouth. Hot, and moist, like he just finished tea. I'm leaned back against his body, shudder from his soft skin, and his grip gradually relaxes on my right wrist. He's warm, like me.

The tense hands leave my thighs and instead hold each of my wrists. Even though the man is pulled from me, he keeps his gentle lips and tongue close. The motion jostles my head and I whine in response. There's too much movement. Please just keep me still. My vision to the shadowy ceiling is blocked by the other man's profile, now notably closer, detailed with obvious dishevelment and sandy hair. The image is disrupted when I'm pulled away again, corresponding with a groan.

"Let me kiss him."

The wet warmth leaves my mouth, leaving my head hanging, barely upright without something to lean onto. Uncomfortable, I whine lowly. "So demanding. Be gentle with the things you love, Natori. You're upsetting him."

"You're the one jostling him."

I'm pulled up from slouching, groaning in response. The gentle whisper in my ear, "Takashi. Would you like to kiss Shuuichi?" excites a shiver down to my abdomen.

"_Seiji_." The hands belonging to the threatening tone squeeze my wrists.

_That hurts._

Both persons turn their heads to me. My wrists are released by the man in front, but I'm still restrained, held upright. A head nuzzles under my chin. I feel smooth hair and a brush of paper; I sigh from the pleasant feeling.

"Stop fooling around."

I mewl when those freed hands move down my chest. I'm not sure if they are warm or cool. They are significantly different from my hot skin, but wherever they travel, it leaves a tingling touch. But one of the firm, gentle hands, guides my head away from the man nuzzling me. There is a blurred face, a faint gentle smile and red eyes, a flicker of a lizard's tail disappearing from his neck beneath a cardigan. His lips tickle mine. A light gasp escapes me when he speaks against them. "Push your lips against mine."

Muddled, crowded, humid, I comply in a betrayed ache. It's weak, but he's eager, reciprocating with tenor. I try to manage my breathing now constrained by the two bodies pressing against me. I'm left without air at times, messy with wet breaths. He slips in a tongue like the other, but invites me to reciprocate when he pulls back to breathe. I do, and it's a numb heat, intensified by the congestion I'm settled between. I moan loudly into his mouth when the back of my neck is licked. In my gut, a fire ignites and I want it released.

His taste is parched, reaching, and salty, unlike the other's. The desperateness frightens me. My own moisture is extracted from me. I feel his hands quake as he touches me, petting my jaw, brushing down my waist. I, too, become parched, _wanting_, and lick into his mouth, hoping to find something there. There is only salt and a temperature I can't place.

I whine in thirst, imaging that I pull myself back, but it's the man behind me (much more moist and controlled). I bend my head, opening my mouth to feed off of his, but his body reaches away for something. Next, actual liquid trickles into my mouth from a cup. I take urgent gulps and lick at a drop before it's pulled away.

Rough hands twist me forward. A monster's gaze flashes before me and dryness conquers once more.

"That's enough," an assertive voice mumbles into my neck. "Don't suck him dry, now. You'll make him dizzy." There's a warm press above my butt. Although uncomfortable, I remain in place, letting a wet heat pass along my shoulder.

The man in front departs with a sloppy kiss, trailing down my body with his unstable hands. A small noise escapes me when I'm yanked up — again, from slouching. As a humid breath latches onto my left ear, a pair of lips press to my stomach and my leg is delicately placed over a shoulder.

A calm sigh escapes my lips. It's a little soothing; the lips pattern circles onto me, hands brushing lightly across my sensitive skin. My leg is lifted higher and hair tickles my stomach as the kisses and licks reach my pelvis. The man from behind assaults my ear (licking inside, the wet heat making me cringe and release a throaty whimper) before trailing kisses along my jaw. He shifts underneath me, jostling me in his lap. I then feel clammy skin, becoming both excited and nervous.

"Natori, pull down on my slacks."

The person between my legs chuckles, looking up and past me. "Does the young master need help?" Fabric slides out from under my butt, upsetting my limp position. Hands immediately grab me before I fall, lolling my head backwards onto the man's shoulder.

"Careful," the man holding me hisses, leaning his head forward. "Your recklessness doesn't help the dead-weight."

The man in front glimpses at me, quiet and observant before speaking. "...how is he faring?"

A cool hand rests on my forehead. I nuzzle into it, minding its texture and unfamiliarity.

"Hot. Still limp."

I sigh at the relieving touch. Somehow I feel more stable against it.

"...Disoriented."

"Good."

I cry out when a wet heat envelops my penis. The man behind me shudders. He rests his sweaty head on my shoulder before rutting against my back. Now my heart begins to pound as heat flushes both to my cheeks and penis. I look down to find the blond man's mouth tightening and pulling on me, drawing out an unexpected moan when the pressure builds. Heavy breaths flush against my pelvis and I can't help but imitate them (so hot, so light-headed). His tongue presses up, dragging along the shaft as he pulls out.

I'm being suckled, ever so softly, mindfully. Long licks, fleshy walls, a slight bounce. I fidget, uncertain about what is happening. My insides churn in a pleasurable tingle from the savage mouth. I catch a glimpse: sloppy, excited, and impassioned, but ever so diligent. His eyes open and look up at me, defined with a resolute goal.

A push to my backside is my brief warning before I'm hauled up by my arms. The man behind tuts and strengthens his hold. As his thrusts shove me forward, my entire penis is taken by the man in front. I snap my head back and arch. A mix between a moan and gurgle escapes, catching me off guard.

There's a gulping choke and a chuckle. The man releases my penis from his throat, breathy pants following. The other sets leisured thrusts against my backside. His heavy voice rushes past my ear, sending chills down my arms and spine.

But it's not directed at me.

"I like that look on you, Natori; that flushed face and hungry gaze. You look quite lewd with your lips trailing saliva from the tip of a dick. From where I am, it looks as if you're sucking me off."

"Are you saying you desire me, Seiji?" is breathed hotly atop the head of my penis. I groan softly and tilt my head to rest on my holder's shoulder. It's then I realize his movements have stopped.

"That's asking a lot from me. I'm not attracted to cowards."

"Having Natsume in your lap really conveniences you." He turns his eyes back to me before sinking down again, lifting my thighs and adjusting the leg hooked on his shoulder. My ear lobe is licked by the other, and again I jolt from the violation. My member continues to be suckled, tossed and massaged by a fervent tongue. Accompanied with a particularly hard suck, my thighs are squeezed. I gasp loudly and kick out my legs. My toes curl and I nestle into the man's body. The harshness relaxes and I feel an overwhelming hot moisture. I whine when he pulls off, but he eagerly laps up the copious amount of saliva.

"He's close. Lay him on the futon."

"We can't do too much just yet. Only recently has he been introduced to this state. And anyways…" A cool sigh puffs against my neck. I search for something to purchase to quell the nerves he excited. "It's much too early for that. His beast is still vigilant. I'll have him properly adjusted in the meantime."

When I'm assisted to stand up, my sweater falls back down my chest, covering my waist and pelvis. Unsteady on my feet (body shaking with disuse), I'm led deeper into the room. They're slow, and careful, gripping my arms, taking half a step to my full one. I can't help but think of how kind they are being.

First, I'm knelt onto the futon, to then gently being repositioned by four hands to lie on my back. The light is dim and the surroundings and faces are familiar, but distant (smoke-like) in memory. A tattooed hand (it wasn't like that before) pets my cheek. I recognize the sandy blond hair — he was the one that sucked me. I lick my dry lips. He smiles and nuzzles me in response, whispering to me something I didn't understand.

"I missed you."

He pulls back and a different hand pulls up my sweater. My eyes flicker over: black hair and a paper seal covering an eye.

"Mind the sweater. Don't get it dirty." The cloth is pulled up and bunched at my neck. My nipples harden from the brush of the wool and cool air. I feel the man's red eye graze from my lower half to my face. In the moment that I blink, he is pulling away, a grin on his face I find unsettling at first, but the concern is quickly lost. "...It's important to him."

The man with the lighter hair crawls closer to me, causing the other to back away in a small stumble. "Why are you still here?" He sounds annoyed. He turns his face to the other. Feeling weak, I remain still and compliant, watching and listening to what I can in this surreal realm.

"I'm making sure you can contain yourself. As much as this is your gift, I have to make sure you don't ruin it for future use." There is the sound of shifting fabric. The man close to me tenses, felt by the gripped sheet beneath me. "Due to the fact that you weren't able to control yourself the first time around."

The man's head turns around swiftly. Blinking has no effect on the defined creases etched on his face. His hard gaze stays on me, but I'm not sure if he is looking at or through me. Maybe I am not here to him at all. I only think to blink and breathe. So when I exhale, and I wish I hadn't, dark red eyes flick to mine. There is such a strong intensity and conflict I don't want to regard. But I'm curious. Regrettably curious.

A hand skims down my thigh. I twitch from the careful touch. Anxiety and curiosity saturate their selves through my body and mind as the dark red renders my entire being idle. I somehow manage to breathe in this distressing paralysis, but remain fixated on the unwavering scrutiny.

"…so I can only touch him?"

"Like I said," the man behind him exhales, "he'll be prepared in time. I'll send for you then."

My legs twist and bunch down the laid out comforter, nearly tangling. I shift, trying to move them from the ensnarement; they're heavy, immobile. I whine, more so from the suffocation than the hand thumbing my arousal. A hand smooths down my leg before they're both lifted out of the turmoil. I release a relieved breath, but there's still a tense knot in my abdomen, curling and hot just like my feet moments ago.

The heat spikes when my arousal is squeezed and tugged upwards. My heart hammers and fumbles, trying to keep up and understand what is happening, what is being done to my body. Tilting my eyes up to the stranger only makes me dizzy and heavy. (Dark red, like clotted blood disguised as disquieting lust.) My head hits the supple futon beneath me before a headache has a chance to dwell.

When I release a particularly loud moan, I expect myself to be incredibly embarrassed, but I seem to have no sense of that. I don't seem to be self-conscious at all. There's only initial instinct when responding to physical senses. No sense of judgment passes by. I am both relieved and terrified of its absence.

My breaths puff out haggard and humid as a strong musk spreads. I regard the sheet before my eyes, passing a hand over a lump. The soft contact sends an electrifying thrill through my hand and arm.

But I am torn back to the present when hot liquid drips down from my arousal. The hand coaxing it spreads the heat along the length. My outstretched hand grips the sheet, and I twist my waist and hips to angle for a more fulfilling pressure. The assailant continues with the teasing pace, toying with the hot spill leaving the tip. I cast my face to him, eyes half-lidded and lips pushed out after a strained exhale.

The other man shifts, and whispers in a deep tone. (My eyes shut when the tone incites ambiguous shivers. There is always a reverberating drop of unease with the bliss of his voice.) "He's so red. You should finish him soon. It looks like he's begging you."

"_Shut up_." The response is clipped and sharp. I should feel vulnerable and uneasy, but the rising pressure in my pelvis is the only thing on my mind.

It's so near, so full. It climbs to the peak in gradual tenseness. But it's now there, it's tipping over, wound up and heavy and swollen to its limit.

My mouth opens in a silent cry and my eyes shut tightly. I can't help the shuddering words that leave the remains of my conscious. "Oh god…" I dig my hands and heels into the futon, bending a slight arch in my back and jutting my hips out. The hand pulls down on my dick to prompt the end of the aching pressure. Finally the intensity is released and an incredible wave of pleasure crashes, melting into my nerves and bones, echoing throughout my body. Hot spurts land on my abdomen and cool as the hand pumps the fading pleasure through. It withers with several last pulses before my hips collapse and I sink into the futon.

The hand disappears. My vision remains fuzzy and dark as I adjust my breaths and heartbeat. As I recover, my grip on the sheets loosen and relax. I'm so tired.

But there's a hasty, _needy_ presence above me. I turn my head and try to perceive the scene before me.

There's raspy breathing (quick, labored, desperate). The two men above me move their hands in a similar motion to what was done to me. I try to swallow the compounded dryness in my throat, and rest my tired eyes on them.

The one standing moves closer. I spot the tip of his member, leaking and red. I'm tired. I want to turn my head back into the soft futon and shut my eyes, but the man captivates me with his piercing eye.

"Be careful of the sweater," I hear his deep voice warn. My eyes flutter at him, grateful that he minded it again. The fabric is pulled up, a finger brushes past a nipple. I fidget from the the coarse treatment and clench my legs, but they're promptly pushed apart by the man kneeling in front of me. He inches forward with a sweaty hand squeezing my thigh.

I hear a muffled groan from above and feel a hot substance spatter on my waist, covering my semen with his. I bury my head, face flushed. I can't place what feeling it is; I'm so hot and bothered it may as well be a fever.

"_Move_."

I softly gasp at the harsh voice, twisting my legs to curl away from him. But he snatches them, pulling my body closer. I grip the comforting fabric of my sweater when the heat of his arousal hovers above my skin. It dips, igniting a frightening burn into my nerves. A sticky residue clings onto a part of my abdomen away from the other man's release. I whine, fearful if his continuing actions are going to hurt me.

But a gentle hand coaxes my wrist (my hand already balled up in the sheets once more), and a frigid jolt courses through my body. I'm conflicted and confused to the sudden touch. I glance to see who it was, but as soon as it was placed, it was removed. Black hair wisps away when the man above me exclaims powerfully,

"Don't patronize me or interfere."

His fueled eyes affix to mine before he gently grips my balls, forcing a small, hidden remainder of pleasure out. I gasp out and choke before burrowing my face deeper into the sheets.

He must have found this as an opportunity. He smiles, similar to the grins of hungry ayakashi. His eyes reach the summit of certainty, reminiscent of the glowing menace of an ayakashi's ill intentions. And so, he squeezes again, and I squirm with a whine. He pulls closer, his presence crushing and hot and demanding. I just wish to hide away and sleep and breathe air free and untainted. But he reassures me, telling me that he is close, soon to finish (I glance to his inflamed tip, it's eager to burst) if I just continue laying here for him, twisting and responding and breathing for him.

I nod earnestly, but my lungs can't fill with air and my heart can't seem to keep up. The words and touches are strange and displaced. It feels too intimate, an intimacy I didn't agree to. I have a passing thought of resisting against his will, but then again I think, why should I? What sort of objection should I have against this? He's almost done.

The man takes my silence as an affirmative answer. He squeezes and pulls on his member to finish, distinguished and red compared to my pale skin. Although soon enough, it is splashed with streams and drops of his milky release, matching the artwork on my waist above.

And I watch in stupefied amazement.

His back curls and hand milks out every last shuddering jerk. I can feel his breaths fan across my bare body, at first warm, until a prickly coldness hardens my flesh into an unbreathable plastic.

After some time, the presence leaves, and I am no longer encased. I can finally melt into the futon. My hands fist the sheets, wringing and scrunching the softness in my palms.

Footsteps draw closer and another presence takes over. A warmed hand presses against the side of my neck. I purr at the touch.

"You're done for today, Shuuichi."

Ducking my head into the futon, I sigh, thanking them both for their thoughtfulness. The presence pauses for a few moments before parting. I bury my face into a woolen sleeve.

"Cleanse the room."

Both of them are so kind not to ruin the sweater.

* * *

Note: In case it wasn't clear before, the drug used is "devil's breath". Under the influence of its active chemical "scopolamine", one retains a lucid and articulate conscious and is incredibly suggestible. Neurotransmitters that help form short-term memory are also blocked, so the victim retains no memory of the occurrence.

Stay tuned for the last multi-chapter installment this summer. Thank you for reading.


End file.
